


Lost and Won

by Lies_Unfurl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Canonical Character Death, Cats, Gen, Healer Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Castiel/Dean Winchester, Season/Series 01, Some Humor, Supernatural Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Witch Castiel, Witch Sam, Witches, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 22:03:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12780507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lies_Unfurl/pseuds/Lies_Unfurl
Summary: When Dean was 4 years old, a witch killed his mother. When Sam was 16, he began displaying powers of his own. Now, with the witch that murdered Mary dead, Dean is recovering with his brother, his brother's equally-witchy roommate Castiel, and Castiel's cat.There's just one problem: Dean hates witches.(Oh, and Azazel might be dead -- but his coven sure isn't.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SPN Reverse Bang 2017. Based on awesome art by [ smudgythoughts](http://smudgythoughts.livejournal.com/), who is [alexdamnvers](alexdamnvers.tumblr.com) on Tumblr: [https://smudgythoughts.livejournal.com/1229](https://smudgythoughts.livejournal.com/1229.html)
> 
> Many thanks to Jdl71 on LiveJournal for beta reading.
> 
> Content warnings: canon-typical violence and torture; brief animal imperilment

Sam awoke without ever fully registering his wakefulness. He was asleep, and then he wasn’t. He was lying in bed, and then he was on his feet, and holding the gun usually hidden in his nightstand. He was halfway out his door before his mind parsed the humming in his blood and the glowing sigils flaring out from the walls, visible only to his carefully-trained Sight.

He and Cas had woven the sigils over the summer, when they moved in together. They had never been activated before, but Sam could read their silvery patterns as easy as he could a children’s book. An alarm system only perceptible to him and to Cas.

From the kitchen came a cry of pain and the sound of something _(a gun?)_ clattering onto the floor. Sam dashed the last few step. Cas was better at combative magic than he was, but Sam had grown up fighting long before he’d cast a spell. He could hold his own.

The silvery sigils caught the light of Castiel’s athame, currently held against the throat of the figure he had pinned to the wall. A bitter November breeze blew in through the patio doors, which Sam was certain he had shut. 

“Who are you?” Cas growled. Grace hissed from somewhere nearby. 

“Sam?”

He froze. How long had it been since he had heard – but he would know that voice in any place, at any time–

“What do you want with Sam?” demanded Castiel, pressing the blade further against the figure’s neck. “Answer me!”

Sam groped for the light switch even as he called on the strength within him, focusing his Sight on the person Cas was holding down. There was something wrong with them, some corruption in their body that flared an ugly shade of yellow against their aura, but it wasn’t inherent. More an infiltration than a part of them. 

If there was a glamor, it was more powerful than any Sam had ever encountered. 

“Sam,” the figure repeated, and he knew.

“Dean?”

Even as the lights came on and his eyes adjusted, he was moving forward. “Cas, it’s okay. Let him go.”

“We don’t know who—”

“He’s my brother.”

Cas froze, then stepped back, athame still held high. He didn’t take his eyes off of Dean, even as Sam shouldered past him to throw his arms around Dean, burying his face in his shoulder like he had done almost four years before, when he said goodbye.

“Hey,” Dean murmured. His palms felt clammy through the thin cloth of the shirt Sam slept in. “Missed you.”

He swayed a bit in Sam’s grip, and Sam slowly became aware of a warm feeling against his hands. “Dean? Are you—”

“’m fine.” Dean’s eyes focused just for a minute on Sam. Sam grabbed his hand, trying to center himself, to transfer some of his strength to his brother. “Dad’s dead. So’s the witch. We got him. ‘s over.”

He coughed. Something like bile splattered around his lips. “Glad I got to tell you. Love you, Sammy.”

And even with the Sight, Sam hadn’t envisioned Dean collapsing in his arms.

*

_He was at once four years old and fully grown. The man hadn’t arrived yet – had it happened like that? Hadn’t the man already been there when he stood outside the nursery?_

_Blood streamed from his mother’s eyes and hands, though she stood in her white nightgown. She smiled at him, and he was holding Sam. Light glowed from her hands. She said something – sang something? He couldn’t tell. He heard Latin though he didn’t understand the words, and he knew it was a dream. Latin wasn’t part of his life at four years old._

_Run, she said, as the man stepped out of the shadows and the light around built up into a blinding intensity. Flickers of orange and the feeling of heat on his face—_

 

There was something on his face.

There was something on his face, and it tickled.

Dean forced his painfully dry eyes open and squinted. Orange. Fuzzy. Was that…?

He propped himself up on his elbows, hissing as pain flared from his ribs and his back. Hunt must’ve gone bad. He didn’t even remember getting hurt, but Dad could fill in the details. He wasn’t in a hospital, so that was good.

At least, he was pretty sure he wasn’t in a hospital. He’d been in more than any 25-year-old should have been in. Never once had he stayed in a hospital with a cat.

“Get off me,” he rasped. No wonder he felt like he’d just spent six hours in the Mojave without a single drink of water. Fucking cats. “Get!”

The cat swished its tail again. It turned its head to face him (why did cats always lie with their asses in your face?) and blinked its yellow eyes.

_Yellow eyes_.

Stepping over the bodies of poor bastards killed in a blood magic ritual. A blade, slick with some sort of potion or poison, cutting deep into his back. An incantation drowned out by a gunshot, but too late, not before Dad – not before –

Fire licking through the barn, and he hadn’t been able to get the body—

Dean swung his legs, and the cat lying on them, to the floor. He ignored its indignant mrow, focused on standing on his own two feet so he could find Sam and find out how in the hell he was still alive.

Unfortunately, his body was on a separate page. One step and his legs buckled beneath him, and though he tried to break his fall with the bed, he ended up just tugging the comforter down with him as he fell flat on the floor.

The cat looked down at him from where it sat a foot or so away. It blinked, and damn if there wasn’t something incredibly smug in its expression. Fucking cats. “Asshole.” 

“Did you just call my cat an asshole?”

Someone who was decidedly _not_ Sam stood in the doorway, frowning. Dean glared right back. 

“Yeah. Cats always know I’m allergic to ‘em. That’s why they pretend to like me so much.” He pushed himself into a sitting position, leaning his head back against the mattress. “Where’s Sam?”

“He had a midterm. He didn’t want to leave you, but I know the professor, and she wouldn’t let him reschedule for anything.” The man walked forward, somehow managing to not step on the cat’s paws, even as it wove between his legs. “Come on. Back to bed.”

Before Dean could protest, there were hands in his armpits and he was being forcefully lifted to his feet. He tried to twist away, but pain flared on his back, like someone was lashing it with a whip, and he gasped without meaning to. One of the first rules Dad taught him – never let a stranger think you’re weak. Dean would’ve been grateful he wasn’t around to see him break it, but that meant thinking about Dad’s death, and he couldn’t go down that path. Not now. Not when there was a stranger lowering him onto a mattress.

The mystery man sat Dean in the center of the bed, careful not to put pressure on his back. He went to pick up the comforter. “Who are you, anyway?”

“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised your ass from the floor, at the moment.” 

He shook out the comforter and then spread it over him, centering it with a frankly disquieting amount of care. Then, as he was straightening it out he continued, “My name is Castiel. Sam and I are in the same class. We’re roommates. As I said, he had an exam, but it should have just gotten out. I expect he’ll be home momentarily.” He frowned. “You’ve been in and out of it for more than a day. I expect you’re thirsty. Let me get you something to drink.”

Dean nodded and watched him go, trying to rein in all of the older-brother instincts that demanded that he interrogate this man, find out his past, find out his history and if he was really someone Sam could trust. As if he hadn’t raised Sam, as if Sam didn’t know to ask all those questions himself. He closed his eyes. 

_Get a grip. Sam will be here soon_. 

A soft thump pulled him out of his thoughts. “Son of a--!” 

The stupid cat was sitting by his side again, watching him with those big yellow eyes that did _not_ bring his worst memories up to the surface. He glared at the cat, and when it didn’t get the hint he waved a hand at it. “Get!”

It blinked, and then took a step forward onto his chest. It began kneading the comforter, never taking its _stupid_ eyes from him. 

“For God’s sake.”

He picked the cat up – picked it up! Didn’t shove it or anything! —and placed – not dropped, _placed_ \-- the damn thing on the floor. With a bit of a thump, because it was just this side of being fat. Nothing to warrant the giant squawk it let out.

“ _What_ are you doing to her?” Castiel charged into the room and scooped the cat up. He glared at Dean with scary intense blue eyes, and suddenly Dean remembered being pinned against the wall with a blade to his throat. 

He needed to get out, and he couldn’t even stand on his own. And even if Castiel already knew that, Dean would be damned if he was about to lose his bravado. “I told you, I’m allergic. Keep the damn thing away from me.”

“She is _not_ a ‘damn thing,’ she’s been helping—”

“Cas?” 

Dean wasn’t prepared for the immense relief of hearing that familiar voice. Not counting whatever he’d said the other night, it had been almost four years since he’d spoken to Sam, their only communication occasional texts updating the other on their contact information. If he was in some enemy territory, Sam’s voice was a transmission from home.

A moment later his brother stepped in through the door. “Dean!” He ran to the bed, nearly plowing over both Castiel and the cat on his way there. A second later his arms were wrapped around Dean, and Dean didn’t even care that the wounds on his back were protesting the contact.

“Good to see you too, Sammy.”

“God, I was so worried.” Sam finally pulled back and damn it, the kid had better keep those tears from spilling out, because if he couldn’t then Dean would turn into a weepy mess too. “You just – burst in here, and—”

“I know. I remember.” He did. He remembered everything now, he was pretty sure. Not the details, but a blurry, fast-forwarded version of Azazel’s death, of the four – five? more?– hours on the road to Sam’s school, praying to forces he didn’t believe in that he would make it. He wasn’t worried about bleeding out, or about the burns, or even about passing out from the pain. The wound wasn’t that deep, he’d escaped the worst of the fire, and as bad as it was, no pain would stop him from getting to his brother. 

It had been the poison that worried him. He’d felt it as soon as the blade broke through his skin, something powerful and evil seeping into his veins. He knew his death wouldn’t be immediate; Azazel wanted him to suffer. But he hadn’t known how long he had.

“Here.” Cas set a glass of water on the nightstand, cat somehow balancing on his shoulder. “I’ll give you two some privacy.”

Sam murmured his thanks, while Dean soothed his incredibly thirsty, cat-dander-infested throat. He drained the cup before finally meeting Sam’s eyes. “A roommate? You sure about him?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Sam rolled his eyes, and something about the familiarity of that one gesture made Dean want to cry. “Relax. I’ve known him for years, and he’s safe. I know he can come off as kind of… intense, but he’s good people.”

“Is he…” Dean paused. He’d been living with this for years. Still didn’t make the words any easier.

“He’s a witch too, if that’s what you’re asking. Like basically his whole family.” Sam shrugged. “I mean. Most of his family are kinda douchebags, but they’re not like… you know.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” He set the glass on the nightstand and glanced down, tracing the ivy pattern stitched into the comforter. A minute into talking with Sammy and they were already hitting up against the walls of the things they didn’t mention.

Things _Dean_ didn’t mention, at least.

“It’s been really great here.” Sam looked down too, fiddling with a hangnail. “I mean. I thought I’d be the only witch, but Cas recognized me pretty quick. He’d wanted to get a normal education, instead of just training under his family. He’s helped me learn to control it. My visions aren’t nearly as bad as they used to be.”

And he couldn’t say anything objecting to that, could he? Not when he’d been helping Sam deal with the nightmares that began when he was 16, the ones with the gruesome deaths that Dad would bring up a few days later, having read about them in the paper. Not when he’d had to talk Sam down from a panic attack after they were arguing about who had to go change the channel, and Sam raised his hand and got the remote without ever getting up. Not when he’d been helping the kid keep it hidden from Dad. 

Magic was a curse, but not one that could easily be gotten rid of. Dean would know. He’d seen—

He couldn’t go there.

“I’m glad you learned,” he said finally, realizing that Sam was waiting. “So it’s… better?”

“Yeah. So much better. I’ve learned how to… to filter the dreams. I don’t get the nightmares nearly as often. And I can defend myself, and Cas, he’s amazing. He can spar with me and he’s really good, but he’s also one of the best healers in his whole family. He’s even thinking about going to med school.”

Dean nodded. He tried to think of something to say, as if he hadn’t spent the past years having a constant dialogue with Sam in his head. But the Sam he talked to then was the Sam he’d raised. This Sam had spent four years entrenched in a world that made Dean want to throw up. Or maybe want to kill. Or both.

He realized it had gone silent, and raised his head. Sam was studying him, and even though Dean didn’t have any sort of precognition, he knew what Sam was about to ask before he even said it.

“…what happened?”

*

Two words and his brother closed up, shut down for business. Sam wasn’t quite sure if he felt more frustration or more disappointment. Wasn’t sure if he was upset with Dean or himself – he had asked the question. He’d known what would happen.

“Dad is—”

“Yeah. Azazel.” Dean closed his eyes. Sam waited, and then, to his shock, he began to talk. “We, uh. We’d been tracking a coven. Heard he was involved. Couple months back, Dad got his hands on this gun—” Dean sat up suddenly, looking around frantically. 

“In the nightstand.”

He watched his brother nearly rip the draw off of its tracks, and then visibly relax. It was powerful stuff, Sam could tell from the spells woven into it. He didn’t know if Dean knew it had been forged by a witch. 

Dean carefully set the gun aside, leaving the draw open just a bit. “Yeah. Uh, so we’d heard regular witch-killing bullets wouldn’t work on Azazel. But this gun’s something else. The Colt. Made by some hunter way back when… some sources said in Salem, but I’m pretty sure that’s bullshit. Anyway, long story short Dad went off for a really long time, and when he came back—”

“Wait, Dad left you on your own? What were you doing?”

“Hunting.” Dean looked at him like it should have been obvious which, granted, it should have been. It was just… hard to remember sometimes, that everything Dean did revolved around hunting people like his friend. Hell, people like Sam.

Of course, Castiel wasn’t a murderer. He didn’t mess around with blood magic. He hadn’t killed his mother. But if John Winchester had ever met him, none of that would’ve mattered.

“Anyway, so Dad came back and he’s got the gun. Still don’t know how, but. We’d been tracking Azazel. At the last minute, we heard about this big ritual going down. We hadn’t thought he’d be there, but we knew others in his coven were involved. So we went. And there he was.”

He shifted on the bed, leaning forward as if the wound on his back was stinging. “We weren’t prepared. But he wasn’t expecting us. Guess our decision to go was so last-minute the Sight couldn’t help him.

“I dunno how to describe it. I mean, it was heavy stuff. I don’t know what they were trying to do, but they’d bled out at least four people. I didn’t have time to count. They were on us; there were six, not including Azazel.” His eyes had glazed over. “We hadn’t seen Azazel, but then out of nowhere I feel this knife slice into my back, and it hurt, and I was feeling so stupid that I’d let someone get the drop on me. But I’m on the floor, I look up, and it’s him. Haven’t seen him since I was four years old, but even if his eyes weren’t yellow. I would have known. And he was laughing. Just like he’d been that night.”

“Jesus, Dean.”

“Yeah. Uh, and he was weaving a spell. Big magic. Bad shit. And Dad was in the corner and Azazel knew he was there; he kinda… he did something. Like just this darkness shooting out of his hands. And I knew it was going to hit Dad. I knew that was it.

“But Dad fired at the same time as Azazel. And you know Dad. Best shot this side of the Mississippi.” Dean rubbed his eyes and Sam looked away, crushing any comforting instincts.

“I had just enough time to get over to Dad. See that he was really gone. But he was smiling. He knew he’d done it. And before I could get him out of there, the whole place just… went up. Fire everywhere. I wasn’t thinking. I grabbed the Colt and I ran.”

“It’s defensive magic,” Sam said automatically, like he could really think of his studies at a time like this. “Uh. You don’t want another witch to find your body and use it in their work. So after you die, you just light up. Really powerful stuff.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. So… that’s it. I knew I had to tell you. My back hurt like a mother. I knew there was something on the knife. I think I might’ve gotten burned. But I got in the Impala and I drove. And then your roommate tried to stab me.”

“He didn’t mean it. He’s a good guy, really. You’ll like him, once you get to know him.”

“That mean I can stick around?”

Sam stared at his brother, wanting to think that he was joking. But even with the levity in Dean’s voice, he knew him better than that. “Dude, of course you’re sticking around. Azazel’s dead. You don’t need to get back on the road. You need time to think about what you want to do next. And it’s been _years_ , Dean.”

“There isn’t really a ‘next,’ Sammy. We got Azazel, but I know his coven was bigger than what we got that night. I’m going back on the road, one way or another.”

“We’ll talk about that when we get there,” Sam settled for saying. “You should rest. I know you’re not healed yet. Where’s Grace?”

Dean tilted his head.

“Grace? Cas?”

His roommate came in a moment later, orange cat trotting behind him. “Have you talked some sense into your brother?” he asked, at the same time Dean growled, “Sammy, you _know_ I’m allergic.”

Oh. _Right_.

“She’s hypoallergenic, Dean. Don’t worry. She’s a sweetheart.” He patted the bed next to him. Grace immediately jumped up, bypassing his outstretched hand to stroll up Dean’s legs and sniff his face. “See? She likes it when you pet her head.”

He watched Dean cave, as he knew Dean would, and tentatively smooth down her fur. She gave a _brrr_ of appreciation. Sam could spot the exact moment when Dean’s macho resolve crumbled away.

“She’s Cas’s familiar. Having her here with you helps focus his powers. It helps him heal you quicker.”

Dean snatched his hand away from the cat like her fur had turned to nettles. “What? Healing me?”

“You’d have died without intervention,” said Cas. “The poison on the blade couldn’t be combatted by medicine alone.”

“No.” Dean shoved away Grace, ignoring her hiss. “No magic. Sam, you should know better.”

“ _I_ should—Dean, you almost died! Cas is the best healer I know, and you have no idea how much it took out of him just to stabilize you!” 

Cas had collapsed over Dean when the curse had been burned out enough to let Dean’s body begin to heal. Sam had carried him to bed, and Cas had refused to keep Grace with him, no matter how her presence would have helped him regain his strength, insisting, “Dean needs her more.” Today was the first day he had been back on his feet, and Sam could tell he still wasn’t at full strength.

“Look, I know it’s not something you chose. I’m glad you’re learning to control it. But you’re not dragging me into that stuff, okay? I’ve recovered from worse. I’ll be fine.”

In the years they had been apart, Sam had managed to block out the things about Dean that… well, that kind of sucked. His bad jokes. His musical tastes. 

His complete distrust of anything having to do with magic. Sam knew if he wasn’t family, Dean would have… well, he would have killed him. A long time ago. God only knew what sort of cognitive dissonance went on in Dean’s head to let him be sitting here right now, not trying to shoot him or Cas.

It wasn’t Dean’s fault. Sam had been the same way, until he had that first dream. The one with blood and magic, and Dean screaming. The one where the witch had snapped Dean’s arm like it was nothing, on a hunt fifty miles from the motel Sam was sleeping in.

Dean had been raised to hate witches, hate magic, and so had Sam. So he shouldn’t blame his brother. 

Still.

“You’re being completely unreasonable, Dean—”

“You know what? I’m gonna hit the can, and then I’m gonna hit the hay.” Dean stood up, wobbling on his feet but daring either of them to offer him a hand. “And I’m gonna nap. And if I find out that either of you has been magicking me, I’m out of here. Because I don’t mess around with that shit. And no one is going to use it to mess with me.”

He turned and limped off to the guest bathroom. The click of the lock rang out, and Sam just sat there, trying to process what had happened.

“It’s not ideal, but he can do it.” Cas shrugged, then bent down to scoop up Grace. “I got the worst of it. He’ll be in pain, but his body can heal without my aid.”

“Yeah.” Sam stared at the closed door.

Cas pressed a hand to his shoulder. “Give him time. From what I’ve heard of your childhood, he’s been deeply traumatized. He’ll come around.”

Sam didn’t say anything. Cas stood there a moment longer, and then walked out, leaving him to wait for Dean alone.

He’d built a life for himself the past four years. He had dreams, classes he loved, and a new side of him that he was just learning to control. Dean had been the only part missing.

And now he was here. And it was like his world had split in two, and he had to pick a side. He thought he had picked one when he left Dad and Dean – but then, hadn’t all his time at school felt kind of dream-like, fragile, an interlude before life on the road began again? Maybe he had always known it would come back to this.

He couldn’t be a witch and a Winchester. That was the truth he’d always been running from. And it had finally caught up with him, in the form of the person he’d missed with a physical ache.

For a brief moment, Sam wished Dean had never shown back up at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel had always thrived on routine. 

In some ways, he had gotten better about that since coming to school, and since meeting Sam, in particular. But at the end of the day, he liked having a purpose, and he liked having a plan. Sam had changed his viewpoints, made him think about things never brought up in his childhood.

But. Dean.

Castiel had been measuring herbs on the kitchen table when Dean emerged from his room one morning, four days after he’d appeared. He moved stiffly, slowly, obviously in pain, but refusing anything other than the whiskey Sam had bought, and the pain meds procured from… well, somewhere. He hadn’t asked.

“Morning,” Dean mumbled, making his way over to the pot of coffee Cas had made.

“Good morning. How did you sleep?” He began grinding thyme with his mortar and pestle. Grace, lying in his lap, twitched an ear at the sound, but didn’t wake up.

“Fine.” Dean turned back around to face him, and froze. His eyes were on the healing bags Castiel was assembling. 

Castiel couldn’t read people the way that Sam could. If he really tried, he could catch a glimpse of an aura here and there, but it felt so unnatural that he rarely bothered. 

Even he could see the change in Dean’s energy. Ripples of red anger curling up from what had been a placid, sleep-dulled calm before.

“They’re for—” he began, but Dean had already left the room. Castiel slumped back, and found that his own mood was so disrupted that he couldn’t keep making the healing charms.

Before Dean, the apartment had been his and Sam’s shared workspace. They weren’t a coven, but their practices complemented each other. But he’d kept his magic confined to his bedroom since then. 

“I’m sorry about Dean,” Sam said to him as they walked to class together. “He’s… skittish. Around magic.”

“From what I understand of your childhood, he has a right to be.”

“Yeah, but…” Sam shrugged, burrowing his hands deeper into his pockets. “It’s just frustrating. It’s _me_ , you know? And he can’t think you’re a threat. You wear bumblebee pajamas, for god’s sake.”

“He’ll come around. I think he’s already softening up to Grace.” It was true. At least, he had stopped automatically removing her from his lap whenever she sought it out, which was often. Grace had a sense for when people didn’t like her, and she always determined to change that.

“I guess.” Sam sighed, looking petulant. “You study for the Ethics midterm?”

At least Dean was healing. Somewhat. Loud nightmares still plagued him, ones that Castiel itched to take away. The mornings Dean made it out of his bedroom, there were always deep bags beneath his eyes. And he moved stiffly, his mouth drawn in a constant grimace. When Cas cared to check on him – which was more often than perhaps it should have been – he could still see lingering traces of Azazel’s curse inside of Dean, burning in him like a poison. And that was without considering the simple physical damage, the burns and the stab wound from the fight.

There was so much more he could do. Witchcraft was his inheritance; he had been taught to use the gift whenever necessary. Much as he had grown up knowing how to fight, to defend his family against their multitudinous enemies, he was a healer at heart. And there was something about Dean that made him ache to ease his pain. But Sam had told him to stand down, and somehow in the past three years Sam had overridden everything his parents had programmed into him.

Right now, though, Dean was outside, sitting in the courtyard. He’d told Cas he’d probably be there for a decent amount of time. The weather had taken a turn to the warm, probably for the last time until spring, and Dean had been cooped up.

Castiel took full advantage of having the apartment to himself, sitting in the center of their living room to meditate. Much as he loved his bedroom – he loved the whole place, and whatever else his relationship with his family, he was grateful that they had the means to pay for something this luxurious – it got tiring stewing in his own energies. He cleansed it regularly, but it was where he slept and where he worked and where he endured the occasional contentious call back home. His essence was embedded too deeply for him to ever really clear his mind of his troubles.

The living room was a more neutral space. His energies blended with Sam’s here and, now, with Dean’s, but no one had such a strong presence as to warp the general feeling. Here was where he and Sam came together as friends to study or to work through problem sets for their shared classes. Lately, it was where Sam and Dean had been watching crappy TV together, only occasionally interrupting their viewings to actually speak with one another. It seemed to be a middle ground where all the tensions between them hung temporarily suspended in the laugh tracks and overdramatic dramas.

Castiel didn’t even bother with candles, just sat himself down on the floor. Grace padded over, but opted to crouch down in front of him instead of lying on his lap. No matter. It was easier to rid his mind of his troubles when holding his familiar, but cats were prickly by nature, and he’d discovered it was better to work alone than to try to encourage Grace to act when she wasn’t in the mood.

He cast a circle, outer boundaries at the edges of Grace’s tail, and began centering himself. He closed his eyes and breathed, coming to his usual place: a sunlit summer field where he lay on the grass and watched clouds float by. A red kite hung in the sky, apparently of its own will. He focused on that kite. 

On a good day, Castiel could clear his mind completely and come out of the trance refreshed, ready to practice spellwork with a renewed purpose. On his best days, he was able to actually look his problems in the eyes: confronting his family about what he would do when he graduated, confronting _himself_ about what he wanted to do. 

Just as his mind became more present in the meditative space, when he could feel the warm grass beneath his head, the door opened. Castiel snapped out of the trance, knowing before he looked that Dean had walked into the room. 

He broke the circle he’d cast and smiled, trying to seem welcoming to this stranger who’d been raised to hate and fear Castiel’s life. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas. Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all. I was just meditating.”

“Huh.” Dean frowned, but he didn’t close himself off the way he usually did when a witch-related subject came up. Which, it seemed, was often. Though he’d been in his home for two weeks, Castiel felt like he hadn’t a clue who Dean really was. 

“Well. Have fun.” Dean turned away, apparently ready to head back to his room. 

Frustration spotted the calm Castiel had built. Here was a man whose life he had saved – it had taken everything he had to burn the curse out of Dean; he had pushed his abilities beyond what he had thought capable of doing. Dean had been hurt, was still hurting, and he had to _help_. 

“Would you like to try it? It’s very relaxing.”

Dean tensed, and Castiel hastened to improve what had, in fact, been an incredibly hasty decision.

“It isn’t witchcraft. Not really. I usually cast a circle as a precaution, to keep negative forces from interfering with me. But that’s not necessary. It’s about breathing and visualization. It helps me to relax.” He paused. “I don’t know if you’ve been having trouble sleeping, but I’ve found it useful for minimizing nightmares.”

The minor lie got Dean to turn around, and so Castiel didn’t even feel bad about it. “It’s not something that… that only your kind do, right? ‘s the sort of thing yoga moms are into.”

“Exactly. Here, have a seat in front of me. Grace can move.” His familiar flicked her tail, and he raised an eyebrow. They couldn’t speak to one another, not exactly, but there was still a sort of communication accomplished through the sharing of energy and the channeling of power. They understood each other, in their own way.

Dean hesitated, then carefully stepped forward. Castiel wasn’t sure if his slowness had more to do with his lingering pain, or the fact that he was trying not to step on Grace as she wound between his legs. A combination of both, most likely. Had he not been a healer, he would have missed Dean’s grimace as he lowered himself to the floor, but he even without consciously calling upon his powers he could see pain flaring up through Dean’s body, lingering effects of Azazel’s magic.

Grace climbed into Dean’s lap without Castiel asking. He was fairly certain that she too had seen Dean’s pain. 

“I like to close my eyes, but you don’t have to. Meditation is about what makes you feel most connected to yourself.” He described his breathing techniques to Dean, exaggerating his inhalations and exhalations to make them easier to follow. Grace’s rumbling purr was barely audible as the two of them fell into a rhythm.

“Now picture somewhere that makes you feel calm. That makes you feel at one with the world. It can be somewhere you’ve been, or just a picture you’ve seen. I find it helps to visualize myself in nature, but this doesn’t have to be the case.” He spoke quietly, calmly, guiding Dean through the visualization process. “Now just breathe with me. Feel the tensions leaving your body. Let the hurt you’ve felt be replaced with calm.”

Castiel wasn’t sure how long they sat like that, just the two of them and Grace. Even with his eyes closed, Castiel could perceive of the changes in Dean – a relaxing in his energy that hadn’t been there before. As he had healed Dean from Azazel’s magic, Castiel had sensed deeper damages – mental and emotional wounds inflicted during childhood that Dean struggled with every day. Hurt that flared up whenever he or Sam mentioned witchcraft, and something trepid underlying all his interactions with Sam, even when they seemed, to Castiel, to be going well.

It wasn’t that meditating could heal Dean’s pain. It was rooted deep enough that even Castiel knew he could never take it away. But it lessened. For a moment, as they breathed together, he felt Dean let go of old fears. And though Cas had healed many others before, there was something about helping Dean that just felt… right. Like he was meant to be helping Dean, like that was the point of why he’d come to college, why he had been Sam’s friend for the past three years. So he could, one day, reduce the weight Dean carried.

Castiel opened his mouth to begin guiding Dean out of the trance, when the door opened and Sam came in.

“Hey guys – am I interrupting--?”

Grace hissed as Dean jumped to his feet, looking guilty. Castiel sighed and picked up the cat as he stood. “We were just meditating.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Sam stared at Cas, expression hard to read. “Dean, did you… like it?”

Dean shrugged, shoulders hunched as he shifted from foot to foot. Focusing, Castiel could just make out faint black lines creeping back into his aura. “It was alright. ‘m tired now. I’m gonna get some rest before supper.”

He hurried off this his room. Or hurried as fast as he could. It was more of a speedy limp than anything. He held himself stiffly, like the past hour of meditation had done nothing. Castiel focused on the comforting weight of Grace in his arms.

“His nightmares have been getting worse,” Sam said quietly, “and I’m not sure what to do about it.”

He exhaled and closed his eyes, and when he opened them there was something hard and resolved. “Cas, I think I need your help.”

*

Dean was getting better. 

Sam couldn’t deny that there had been a marked change in his brother’s attitude. He was walking easier, no longer seemed to be in constant pain. He wasn’t drinking as much. He had even been meditating with Cas. More than once, Sam had come back from class to find the two of them watching TV together, usually with Dean explaining the plot as it played out, and Castiel squinting and nodding.

It felt – nice. Kinda like having a family, a real family.

And if he felt guilty, well, that didn’t matter. Much. Dean seemed happy, and so did Cas, and maybe for once he could let his guard down, just accept a good thing for what it was on the surface.

Despite paying careful attentions to his brother’s improvements, he was still surprised when he opened up the fridge after class one day and saw a fat, pink turkey marinating on the middle shelf. 

“Cas?” he called, hearing his roommate come out of his bedroom. “You using entrails to read the future now?”

“What? Dude, don’t make me paranoid you’re gonna go digging the gizzards out of the dump.”

Sam jumped. Not Cas. Dean. “Did… did you buy this?”

Dean had been cooking more, a blessing during midterms season. But he’d mostly stuck to burgers, pasta, sometimes steak or fried chicken. An entire bird seemed a bit… much for only the three of them.

“Of course I bought it.” Dean leaned in and snagged a soda from the fridge, and Sam hated the burst of happiness that came with seeing that he hadn’t defaulted to beer. “Dude, Thanksgiving is in two days. You’re lucky they even had any.”

Huh. He frowned. He’d lost track of time. He didn’t have a whole lot of friends outside of Cas; growing up, he’d never known how to interact with kids with normal lives that didn’t involve packing up and hitting the road every couple of months. With the witch thing added in, it just didn’t seem worth it to risk his secret getting out.

Thanksgiving, then, was usually just the two of them, with Cas springing for Chinese takeout, and Sam (and his meager bank account) being immensely thankful. They didn’t plan anything. No need to think ahead.

“I mean, I guess we can do Thanksgiving if you want.” Sam shrugged. “First time for everything.”

“What? We had plenty of Thanksgivings growing up –” 

“We ate KFC. If we could afford it. Did you get cranberries too?”

“Cranberries, sweet potatoes, and stuffing. The whole nine yards.” Dean sipped his soda and grinned. “You know, I gotta say, Sam. You know I’m never gonna be totally onboard with the magic thing, but you two have got one hell of an herb selection. Best spice rack I’ve ever seen.”

“You took my—” he shook his head. Not worth it. Dean was happy. That mattered more than the all sage, rosemary and marjoram in the world. “Let me know if you need any help.”

“Will do.”

 

Of course, Dean didn’t ask him for help. Dean never asked anyone for help. Which was why Sam was so surprised when he got home on Wednesday, right after classes had let out for the mini-break, and heard Castiel’s voice from within the kitchen. 

“…and then my oldest brother is Michael. One of the best witches I know, the sort you see once in several generations. He’s somewhat of the second in the family, after mother, and he’s primed to become the high priest of the coven. He didn’t want me to come to school initially, but when I explained that a better understanding of politics could only help the family business, he relented.”

The two of them stood side by side, their backs to Sam. Even as they worked on some task that he couldn’t discern, Dean leaned close to Castiel’s body, apparently interested. His voice, when he answered, was guarded. Still, that he hadn’t run away from a conversation about Castiel’s family, who were ridiculously powerful and occasionally meddlesome in world affairs that Cas was loathe to talk about, was significant.

“Huh. I thought you wanted to be a doctor instead of going back to work with them?”

“Yes. Well. They don’t know that. Sam? Did I hear you come in?”

Sam stepped inside, aware that he was eavesdropping. “Yeah. Four whole days without classes, finally. What’re you doing?”

“Cas is helping me cut apples for the pie.” Now that Sam was closer, he could in fact see the peels littering the kitchen, and the bowl of cinnamon, sugar, and assorted other spices that Dean was tossing the slices in. 

“I thought that’s what the canned pumpkin was for?”

“Well, yeah. But it’s Thanksgiving. Can’t have just one kind of pie. Pumpkin, apple, and pecan.”

Sam nodded. “You do realize that comes out to each of us having a pie of our own, right?”

“It’s about to be me and Cas having a pie and a half each, if you keep complaining.”

“Touché.” Sam grabbed a spare knife and started peeling an apple, because this? This was good. And if Dean was actually happy and actually laughing when Cas talked about witches, then the ends justified the means, and that was that. No need to angst about it anymore.

*

A month had passed since Dean’s life had gone up in flames for the second time, and he was feeling remarkably okay. 

Thanksgiving had been – it had been good. Just the three of them, plus Grace, and an amount of food that even Dean would grudgingly admit to having _maybe_ been excessive. But he’d done a damn fine job with that bird, and with the potatoes, and especially with the pie. Sitting around the table and listening to Sam and Castiel’s college stories, and telling some of his own adventures from his time on the road… they’d felt like a family. And even when Sam or Cas mentioned witchy topics, like when Cas talked about growing up in a family that was also a coven, he could deal with that. He didn’t like it, he didn’t trust magic, but he could separate Sam and Cas from the witches he had grown up hunting.

He wasn’t _fine_ , exactly. He knew that, even as much as he’d pretend otherwise in front of Sam or Cas. But the nightmares were fading. The pain was fading. He could spend days on his feet without feeling like his veins were burning up.

And for the first time since he was four years old, he didn’t feel the need to keep running.

He knew there was still darkness in the world, and he knew he’d have to get back to fighting it soon. There were still members of Azazel’s coven out there. And for all that, maybe, – _maybe_ – Sam and Cas did good with their abilities, most witches didn’t, and Dean had to protect people. Dad had left him with that responsibility, and Dean didn’t intend to fail.

But if right now he was taking a moment to get back in shape, if right now he and Cas and sometimes Sam were meditating together most nights… that was okay. He wasn’t resting just regrouping. And he and Sam hadn’t spent Christmas together since Sam was 17, and he hadn’t had a friend like Cas since… well, forever. So he could get back on the road when the holidays were up.

He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His runs were almost back down to the times he’d been getting before Azazel. The other night, he had gone out and driven to a bar a couple of towns away to play pool, and there was a fat stack of cash sitting in his drawer now.

Dean had never been one to live off of the kindness of others, and he wasn’t about to start now. He knew that Sam and Cas would both be reluctant to take the money, but tough shit for them. 

He leaned over and opened the nightstand. The money was tucked away in back, behind the Colt. He reached in to take it out, to count it again and figure out a way to make his brother and his friend be sensible.

As he was scraping up a few bills that had fallen from the stack, his fingernail caught on something. Some unevenness in the back of the drawer. 

Dean frowned. Setting the Colt and the cash on the bed, he bent down to examine it. He was familiar with false bottoms and hidden compartments – but why would Sam or Cas…?

He dug into the ridge, and the “bottom” of the drawer popped up into his hands. He turned it over, and stared at it.

 _No_.

*

His notes were spread out all over the couch, but Castiel couldn’t bring himself to care. Dean was in his room; Sam was getting dinner started. It was just him and Grace, and a semester’s worth of notes on Advanced Aramaic that he had yet to commit to memory. If it didn’t go against all his ethical sensibilities, he would have been tempted to use a charm to bind the knowledge in his mind.

He was halfway through the Chapter 5 vocabulary when the door to Dean’s room slammed against the opposing wall. Grace dug her claws deep into Castiel’s thigh before leaping down from his lap, but he hardly registered the pain as he sprang up. He had called the athame he always carried into his hand before he realized that none of their protective sigils were broken. The apartment hadn’t been breached.

No, it was just Dean standing there, his eyes wild. His hands were clenched around a series of small objects – were those the—?

_Fuck._

Sam had come running out of the kitchen at the noise, but now he stood across from Dean, still. The brothers stared at each other, having some sort of conversation Castiel wasn’t privy to.

Sam carefully set down the knife he’d brought from the kitchen. “We should talk,” he said quietly.

Castiel forced himself to put away his own blade. Grace sprang up onto the couch and then to his shoulder, apparently in search of a better vantage point.

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about.” Dean threw the healing bags onto the floor. “What’re they for, Sam? To calm me down? To make me okay with what you and he are doing?”

Castiel stepped forward, reaching up to Grace both to steady her balance and to calm his nerves. “Don’t blame Sam. I made them. They’re for _you_ , Dean. My focus is in healing, you know that. I couldn’t let you keep hurting when I was capable of taking away your pain. One is for nightmares, one to alleviate the physical effects of Azazel’s curse, one to help you find peace. Nothing more, I promise.”

Dean stared at him and then turned back to Sam. “Is that true? Was it just him?”

Grace swished her tail against his shoulder as he forced himself to keep a steady face. _Yes. Say yes, Sam._

“No,” Sam said. He stared at Dean defiantly. “Cas made the healing bags, but only because I asked him to. I painted the sigils to bring in the good energy and to keep out the bad. Dean, you were a mess. You weren’t sleeping. You could barely walk.”

Something undefinable shattered in Dean’s face. “I believed in you. I thought you were different, Sam.”

“I don’t even know what that means.” An edge entered Sam’s voice. “I am who I’ve always been. I’m your brother.”

“Really? ‘cause I know my brother. I raised my brother to be smart. To know that using witchcraft fucks a person up. My brother wouldn’t have gone on and magicked me after I explicitly told him not to!”

“You were hurting! You didn’t raise me to sit by and ignore you when you woke up screaming every night! Ever since we found out I’m a witch, you’ve looked at me different, and I’m sick of it. I’m the same Sam I’ve always been.” His chest and shoulders heaved. “You can’t see past what Dad taught you. Not even when it comes to me. For once, why can’t you think for yourself?”

“Because I watched a witch pin our mother to the ceiling! Because I’ve seen them kill children and call up the dead for fun! You think you know what the world’s like when you’ve been sitting around in school for years? You think that just ‘cause some book tell you magic is good, that it’s okay to use? Well, I don’t! Because I’ve been out hunting. And I’ve seen witches who swore they were good shed blood to get what they want. There’s no such thing as good magic.”

They stared at each other for a moment, before Dean spoke again, in a much quieter voice. “I _told_ you not to, Sam. And you went behind my back and you used it on me anyway. It doesn’t matter if you thought what you were doing was right. You knew how I felt.”

“I know. I did. And I’m sorry that you’re upset, but you were getting better. I can’t regret what I did because it made you hurt less.” Castiel could see tears in Sam’s eyes. “So be mad at me if you want, but it doesn’t change anything. I’d do it again.”

“You think I’m ‘mad?’ That doesn’t even begin to cover it.” Dean turned from his brother and stalked toward the door, pausing as he passed by Castiel. “And you, Cas? You wanna try to convince me that you’re the Good Witch of the South too?”

“Good things do happen,” Castiel replied quietly.

Dean snorted and shook his head. “Y’know, I thought that when I met you – that maybe – never mind. Fuck you too, Cas. You’re just like the rest of them.”

He stomped out the door, pausing just once. “You know, maybe it’s a good thing Mom isn’t here. It would kill her to know what you are.”

He slammed the door behind him. Grace jumped down from Castiel’s shoulder, probably to hide somewhere quieter. 

“I’m sorry, Sam.” Cas went to stand by his friend. His hand hesitated over Sam’s shoulder. Castiel had never been one for comfort. “He’ll come around.”

“Maybe.” Sam laughed, eyes hollow. “I wouldn’t count on it.”


	3. Chapter 3

Dean drove.

Dean sped, more accurately. Pedal to the floor, he raced down an empty stretch of Wyoming highway. Heavy clouds promised snow any moment, but he didn’t care. Let the storms come. It couldn’t make the night any worse.

He just… he couldn’t think. He couldn’t process the hurt. Or begin to consider if he was even surprised, and wasn’t that fucked up? That he could raise Sam for his whole life and the moment the kid had shown off his telekinesis, Dean knew everything was lost?

The headlights caught an exit sign just ahead, and he wrenched the wheel right, cutting across the lane and taking it faster than he should have. He slowed down onto the Main Street of some podunk. Though it was barely past 8:00 p.m., all the storefronts were dark.

All except one, anyway.

He pulled into a parking space and got out of the Impala. Two hours later, he was well and truly sloshed.

“I don’t think you should have anymore,” said the bartender, who looked barely old enough to be serving alcohol. “Actually, maybe I should see your keys—”

Dean waved him off. “No. ‘s alright.” His words were only a little slurred, not nearly as much as they should have been given all he’d had to drink. “I live right down the street.”

He turned and forced himself to walk in a straight line, a nearly impossible task given both his BAC and the pain that had returned as he’d slumped over on the stool. His muscles burned like he’d just finished a triathlon. Like it wasn’t just some lingering poison left in him by the man that’d killed both of his parents.

 _Fucking witches_.

He was so focused on maintaining an air of sobriety as he stumbled towards his car that he didn’t bother looking around, scoping out the setting. And so he didn’t see the figure that stepped out of the shadows until they were right behind him and whispering a Latin incantation into his ear, and as he slumped to the ground, his brain had just enough time to process how much trouble he was truly in.

*

Sam had laid down flat on his bed with the intention of meditating, but he couldn’t come anywhere close to getting his emotions in check, and so instead he’d fallen into an angry sleep. His dreams followed no sort of logic, but were constantly overshadowed with a burning, chaotic frustration.

He awoke with his heart racing and a sharp, piercing pain stabbing through his head, like a spike driving behind his right eye. For a brief moment, he thought that maybe it was just a migraine, brought on by the stress of the argument.

He should have known better.

Sam closed his eyes as his mind was flooded with a vision like he hadn’t had since he’d met Cas and learned to control his powers. 

_Dean, slumped over, his body being dragged and tossed into a car._

_Dean with his hands cuffed, suspended in chains and hanging in the center of a cement room._

_Blood splattering over his eyes, and Dean screaming and screaming and screaming—_

“Sam!”

He gasped as his eyes flew open, and then immediately squeezed them shut against the intensity of his bedroom lights. Cas stood over him, Grace on the bed, her ears back and her back arched. 

“You were having a nightmare—”

“No I wasn’t.” Sam forced himself to stand up, even as his head ached the way it always did after an unbidden vision. “Dean. Cas, Dean’s in a lot of trouble. We’ve got to find him.”

*

Dean couldn’t feel his hands.

He could feel the throbbing of a hangover in his headache and in the sharp press of his bladder, and he could feel something digging into his wrists, but he couldn’t feel his hands. 

He forced his eyes open. Somewhere abandoned. A warehouse? It was too dark for him to make out much detail.

His falling-out with Sam came back in bits and pieces as he assessed the situation. Dread and bile rose in his throat. His hands were cuffed together, chained to a hook in the ceiling. His ankles were similarly bolted to the floor.

Dean tried to breathe, to calm himself down. He’d been in shitty situations before. He could get out of this. Sure, maybe in the past he’d had Dad to bail him out. Maybe Sam would figure out that something was wrong, or maybe not. Maybe he wouldn’t come even if he realized. Didn’t matter. Dean would be okay either way. Dad had taught him to rely on no one but himself. He’d be fine.

“Finally up, Sleeping Beauty?” An old man lurched into the room, smiling at Dean. “Been wanting to see those pretty eyes of yours. They’re gonna look so nice all filled with fear when I start with you.”

“That’s just creepy.” He rattled the chains from which he hung. Iron, probably. Secure. No way of breaking them. “You gonna cut to the chase and tell me why I’m here, or do I have to sit through a whole monologue first?”

“Hmm.” The man reached out and stroked Dean’s cheek. He spat at him. 

The backhand to his face caught him off guard, and he would have fallen had he not been suspended by the chains. “Save your voice. I like it when they scream.” He leered at Dean. “You’ll get it eventually, but a word to the wise, Deano? Next time you go after a coven, make sure you take out all the members.”

He leaned in close, and his eyes flashed white. “Not that you’ll ever be able to take all of us out. You Campbells have been trying for centuries, and guess what? We’re still winning.”

Before Dean could begin to process what he said, he’d drawn a dagger from his side and brought it down, and Dean screamed and screamed.

*

Sam tried to reach out to his brother, but it was like his ability to access the Sight was blocked. He’d had more visions since the first one, all the same: Dean, bloodied, crying out for help that Sam couldn’t provide.

But he couldn’t control them. He’d learned how to limit the effects of unwanted visions, and how to scry, to try to call upon the Sight to bring him information about particular subjects. No techniques were helping him now: the visions came unbidden, like they were being streamed on a private channel straight into his brain. He couldn’t focus them.

If it wasn’t for Cas… fuck. Sam couldn’t focus, couldn’t do any of the spellwork he’d been studying for the past four years. Cas didn’t have those problems, Cas who’d been studying magic his entire life. He cast the locating spell. He was the one driving right now, face pale but his hands steady as he took an exit, guided by some clue Sam couldn’t see.

“I don’t think he’s here anymore,” Cas said, breaking the silence. “The results were… inexact. I think someone may be preventing me from getting a closer location.”

“Or he’s dead.” He didn’t even mean to voice his thoughts, but the words had been haunting him all the hours they’d been on the road.

“He’s not. I’d know. You’d know.” The car crawled down the street. Sam stared out the window, not sure what he was looking for, until—

“Pull over!”

Cas slid into a space on the side of the street, and Sam was out before he even put the car in park. In a few steps he was standing next to the Impala. He pressed a hand to the cool metal of the door.

_Dean, slumped over, being dragged by a tall, older man to a car a few spaces down._

Sam focused on the license plate, barely able to make it out—

With no warning, the man’s eyes snapped up, like he knew that sometime in the future, Sam was watching all this play out. He grinned. His eyes were clouded over, but Sam knew he could see.

“Sam?” Cas stood next to him.

“A witch got him. Has him. Cas, we’ve got to hurry.” Sam took a deep breath. “I think he was from the same coven that killed our mom.”

*

“It’s been two days.” The man – Alastair, he called himself – took Dean’s chin in his hand and made him meet his eyes. They were normal right now, not clouded over, but that didn’t stop the malice from clearly shining through. “Maybe your brother isn’t as smart as I thought he was. Or maybe he’s just not coming.”

If Dean had anything left in him, he would have spit at the man, but he hadn’t had anything to drink except for the icy water thrown on his face whenever Alastair wanted to shock him awake. He didn’t even have it in him to defend his brother, though he knew Alastair was wrong. Sammy was smart. Sammy would find him. Would be looking. He wouldn’t be so angry at Dean that he’d assume Dean would just disappear.

Right?

“Your momma would have found you by now.” He dug his fingers into the welts on Dean’s back. Dean bit his lip bloody, willing himself not to scream. “Mary, Mary, Mary. I never liked the Campbells but damn if I didn’t respect them.”

He leaned in close to Dean, tracing his blade along Dean’s ear, just deep enough to draw blood. “I’ve been around for centuries. She was young, but damn if she couldn’t do things I’d only ever dreamed of. She could’ve been great.”

“Fuck off,” Dean rasped. He knew it was stupid – knew he should be saving his voice and his energy, and knew that Alastair was pushing at his weakest spots. But in the intervals between the torture, he always harped on Mary, and Dean was sick of it. “You don’t get to talk about my mother like that.”

“He speaks!” Alastair pressed against a broken rib, and an involuntary gasp of pain slipped out of Dean. “Did your daddy never tell you? Did he even know?”

“He knew witches were fucking dicks.”

“Shouldn’t talk about your momma like that.” He stared at Dean, as if waiting for a reaction. Dean refused to give one. Witches fucked with your head. That’s what they did. 

“You really didn’t know.” Alastair laughed then, his knife stilling at the corner of Dean’s lip. “Oh. That’s _rich_. Little Mary Campbell so ashamed of her past she didn’t even tell your pa.

“Let me tell you a story, Dean. Once upon a time, the Campbells were the most powerful coven this side of the Atlantic.” He traced his knife over Dean’s skin as he spoke. “But they weren’t very nice. And there were lots of little boys and lots of little girls who didn’t like them. So they began to fight. And they fought for a very, very long time.”

Without warning, he reached down, grasped Dean’s right thumb, and snapped it. Dean screamed.

“The Campbells were good, but we were better. Now little Mary Campbell, she was the youngest of them all, and the best. We killed her momma and her daddy, and all her little cousins. But she was smart. She went and she hid herself the best way she knew how to: in plain sight. Married a mechanic. Put on an apron and became a model housewife. Even had two babies.”

He rubbed his hand almost soothingly over a patch of skin he had flayed raw the day before. “But Mary had a problem. She was angry. She remembered how it felt to watch us cut her daddy’s head off, and she couldn’t forget. So she began going out on the weekends. Telling Johnny she had some friends to see, and leaving him to watch the kids. And she’d go after us. Get information. Catch one of us off-guard every now and then. She was good. But she wasn’t perfect.”

Alastair took a handful of salt from the table and rubbed it into the wound, and though Dean had thought he couldn’t cry out anymore, he found himself mistaken. 

“Do you remember that night, Deano? Azazel said your momma didn’t fight back. He said that she cast one last spell to protect you and Sammy and Daddy, and then she put Sammy in your arms and told you to run. But you didn’t. You were too scared to move til a moment later when Daddy ran in and you both saw Azazel pin her to the ceiling with a thought.

“Mommy was a damned witch. Just like your brother. And we killed her, and what we’ll do to him? It’s gonna be so much worse.” Alastair leered at him, and Dean… couldn’t. Couldn’t think. Or breathe. “And he’ll get here soon, and then it’ll be bye-bye for the Campbells for once and for all. And that’s gonna feel so good.”

He picked his knife up and for once, Dean was almost grateful for the pain.

*

The witch screamed as Castiel drove his fist into his face again. “Where. Is. Dean?”

“Six feet under by now.” He grinned and spat blood at Cas’s feet. “You’re too late.”

“You’re lying.” Castiel raised his fist again, but Sam had had enough. He stepped forward and laid a hand on Cas’s elbow.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” he murmured. “We need a new plan.”

Four days since Dean had disappeared. One day since they’d tracked down the car he’d been taken away in and found it in the hands of some low-level practitioner he and Cas had easily overcome.

“He knows something,” Cas argued. “He has to.”

“But he’s not breaking. We can’t just keep hitting him and hoping. That’s torture.” Sam stared at the young man’s body, slumped in a pool of his own blood. He could faintly see the sigils Cas had put up to hold his powers.

Cas had been great. Really. Sam couldn’t have gotten this far without him.

But he wasn’t doing enough. Sam knew this coven in a way that Cas just didn’t. They didn’t have breaking points that could be reached just by hitting them, or by keeping them locked away from their own magic. They didn’t give up information that easily. Sam would know. He’d watched his father torture them before.

There were things Sam had never told Castiel. That the long nights he spent pouring over antiquated grimoires, it wasn’t just out of an idle curiosity to learn more about the world in which he was a member. He was looking for information on the people that had killed his mother and broken his family. He was finding out everything he could so that one day, he could stop them.

And the thing about the magic he and Cas practiced together – it was good. That was the problem. Healing magic, divination, sigils, defense.

You couldn’t kill a coven with what they studied. 

So maybe Sam had furthered his education, reading books that Cas hadn’t recommended. Maybe he had chatted with a few other witches he’d met now and again. 

He wasn’t evil. He’d never done any of the things he’d read about.

He turned to Castiel. “I don’t feel like going out, and I don’t think we’ll find somewhere that’ll deliver out here. You mind going to pick up the grub?”

Cas stared at him for a moment, then shook his head, wiping blood from his knuckles with an old rag. “Not at all. Come on, Grace.”

Sam watched as the two of them walked out of the abandoned house. He waited until he heard the rumbling motor of Castiel’s old car.

Then he took a deep breath and he turned to the witch.

*

Cas knew there was something wrong as soon as he pulled up to the house. He didn’t even bother grabbing the bag of takeout, just turned the key and leapt out, Grace on his heels. It had been a long time since he’d seen energies this dark surround a place. There wasn’t much that could bring them up except—

He skidded to a halt, eyes locked with Sam. The witch they’d captured lay on the ground, throat cut. Sam’s mouth was wet with his blood, but his eyes were clear.

There were rituals that could only be done with sacrifice. There was a reason cautious witches inlaid their own bodies with spells, so that their corpses would burn instead of being made into tools.

The man they’d caught had been cocky. Of course he hadn’t thought he’d die young.

Sam licked his lips. Castiel could see his energy pulsing stronger than ever before, but he could also see the darkness creeping in at the edges. From behind him, Grace hissed.

Blood magic, especially with a witch’s blood, could get results. But they never came without a price.

“Alastair. Alastair took him. I can see where he is,” Sam said quietly. He stood, the knife he’d used still in hand. “We can talk about this later, Cas. We have to go get Dean.”

And Cas wanted to speak, he really did. He almost did. Told Sam that he didn’t know what he was playing with, that he hadn’t grown up around magic. That he had no idea the gravity of what he’d just done.

But. Dean was out there.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and turned around, and walked back to the car.

*

Dean had always known he’d die at the hands of witches, just like both his parents had. He just didn’t think the day would come so _soon._

He could barely breathe. There was blood in the back of his throat, and darkness spotting his vision. He’d lost the ability to scream a long time ago, but that didn’t make the pain any less real.

“Poor Deano,” Alastair cooed in his ear. “Looks like Sammy doesn’t care about you after all, huh?”

Dean closed his eyes. Stupid. He couldn’t even blame Sam, not after his last words to him. He wouldn’t go after himself either, if he was in Sam’s shoes.

Somewhere in the darkness ahead of them, a door slammed against a wall. Screams. Gunshots?

Alastair laughed. “Well, well, well. Maybe I was wrong.”

He didn’t know what that meant. It didn’t matter. He was good as dead. 

He let himself drift. He wished he could tell Sammy he was sorry. He wished he could get to know Cas better. He wished he could see his mom again.

“Dean!”

It sounded like Sam, but it wasn’t. Dean wasn’t an idiot. He didn’t know how Alastair was doing it, but it didn’t matter. He was a witch. Of course he could imitate another’s voice.

“Get away from him! Dean, look at me!”

He struggled to get his eyes open, crusted as they were with tears and sweat and blood. Even if it was just a trick, wasn’t it better to see Sam one last time?

In the dim light, he could just see his brother running toward him, Cas alongside. Alastair was grinning.

“Sammy Winchester and Castiel Novak. Oh, I’m gonna get a pretty price for your heads.” He flicked a hand. Cas cried out and stumbled. Sam slowed, but didn’t fall. “Cassy, how much do you think your family will pay to get you back in mostly one piece? Think they’ll finally back off?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. “So close, Sam. I wish I didn’t have to kill you. It would be so sweet to watch you live with the regret.”

Alastair turned on his heels, grabbed Dean’s shoulder, and plunged his knife down towards Dean’s heart. 

An orange blur slammed into Dean’s chest, knocking the wind out of him. He gasped, fighting a losing battle for air. As the dark spots spread over his vision and the pain finally, blissfully dulled, the last thing he heard was someone screaming.

*

Alastair’s spell had knocked Castiel off his feet. Sloppy. Stupid. If his brothers could see him now, thrown off-balance by his basic inability to dodge—

In his self-loathing, he almost didn’t see what happened. Almost missed Alastair’s taunting and Sam’s snarl of anger. Almost missed the knife—

_Grace._

His familiar was smarter than him and better than him, and she hadn’t been hit by the spell. No, she went ahead and did exactly what he would have done.

He watched as she leapt up, claws outstretched, and slammed into Dean’s chest. His chains were just loose enough that he was knocked back by the force of the blow, causing Alastair’s strike to miss.

Causing the blade to impale Grace.

He felt it the same as if the knife had sunk into his chest. Part of him knew that he was screaming, but none of him cared to stop. He flung himself forward, calling on all that he had ever learned to draw forth his healing abilities.

“Grace,” he gasped. Blood poured out over her orange fur, and her eyes were closed, but she was still alive. She had to still be alive.

He could hear Sam yelling, was faintly aware of the sounds of spells being cast. In his periphery he registered magic being used, strong magic, old magic. He didn’t know if it was Sam or Alastair. It didn’t matter to him.

His hands glowed silver. He knew that wasn’t good, that he was drawing on energy he didn’t have, using his own life force as credit. It didn’t matter if it meant that he saved her. 

Power flowed through him. Maybe the power _was_ him; maybe he was burning up his very essence for his familiar’s sake. 

Beneath his hands, he felt her heal. Her muscles came together, her blood resettled into her veins. She was alive. She would live.

He stood up and glanced behind him. Alastair was pinned to a wall, but Sam – Sam wasn’t touching him. He was standing at a distance, hand outstretched. The air around him burned something powerful and dark, but he was winning. Cas had never had the Sight, not like Sam did, but he could see now. Alastair was good as dead.

Not that he could have helped, had the situation been different. He didn’t remember how to fight. His blood had turned to quicksilver, every part of him burning with the need to give, to save. He was made for this. This was all he could do, now.

In a distant part of his mind, Castiel thought that perhaps he was in trouble. Healing Dean from Azazel’s poison had been difficult, but he’d been in control the whole time. Now his powers were guiding him, like he inhabited only a tiny corner of his mind. 

At the same time, he’d never felt stronger. If he went up in flames, well, wasn’t that better than quietly fading out?

He turned to Dean. On a conscious level, he couldn’t have described all of Dean’s wounds. They just lit up in his vision, glowing spots of pain all over his body. He didn’t have long either.

Castiel lurched forward and grabbed his torso. Unthinkingly, he smote the chains that were holding Dean and caught him as he fell.

Could he stop if he tried? He wasn’t sure. All that he was now was light, was his powers, was the healing force that flowed from him and into Dean. He didn’t know how much he had to give. He just knew it had to be enough to save Dean.

Beneath him, Dean’s eyes burst open. He gasped and began coughing, his chest heaving.

It was enough. 

“Dean,” Castiel said. The shine that had enveloped him had faded. It had been enough. He had done enough.

He smiled, and then collapsed onto Dean.

*

There was too much going on.

His mouth tasted like blood. It had tasted like blood since he had put his lips around the slit in the throat of the witch he and Cas had captured.

He knew what he was doing. He knew the effects of witch’s blood. He knew that there were certain darknesses you couldn’t just walk away from.

It didn’t matter. Dean needed him. 

Cas was on the floor, glowing with impossible strength as he healed his familiar. Dean still hung suspended between the chains.

Alastair was pinned to the wall.

No. He, Sam, was pinning Alastair to the wall. He’d never felt this powerful before. He could feel the other witch struggling against him, but it didn’t matter. 

In the back of his mind, Sam recognized that Alastair was very, very old. He had performed spells forgotten to everyone else, knew secrets that would die with him. On his own, Sam never would have been able to do this.

But he wasn’t on his own. Cas was here, and Dean. 

And the witch whose throat Sam had slit, and whose blood he had drunk, and whose powers were in _his_ blood now, mingling with Sam’s own gifts.

“There’s magic you can’t go back from,” Alastair gasped, grinning at him as Sam crushed the life out of him. “Enjoy the road you’re on, Sammy-boy.”

His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and his body fell to the floor.

Sam turned back to his brother and to Castiel, aware only distantly of the flames creeping up Alastair’s body now. “Dean. Cas. We’ve got to go!”

“Sam?” Dean’s voice. Sam knelt. _Fuck_. Cas had collapsed, his eyes rolled back and his breathing shallow. Dean had pushed himself onto his arms, but he didn’t look capable of standing. How would he be, after days suspended in chains?

Sam closed his eyes and called on the last flickering edges of strength that still thrummed inside him. “Come on.” He wrapped one arm around Dean, one around Cas, and stood.

The fire had risen, casting shadows that distorted the abandoned warehouse, but Sam could see Grace clearly, sitting a few feet away. He stumbled towards her, dragging his brother and his best friend. She turned and trotted into the darkness, pausing just long enough for Sam to keep up, and just like that he let the bloodied cat guide him out of the burning building.

*

There was something on his face.

There was something on his face, and it tickled.

Castiel opened his eyes, then immediately squeezed them shut against the buzzing yellow lights. He must have been asleep when someone opened up his head and filled it with bees. That was the only explanation for his headache.

Something dry nuzzled his face, and a rough tongue began lapping at his cheek.

With monumental effort, he forced his eyes open just a sliver. Grace, lying on his chest, currently groomed his facial hair. _Facial hair?_ “Please stop,” he whispered through dry lips.

She looked up at him and blinked a long, slow blink. Then she turned around, kneaded his chest, and lay down, ass facing him. A flick of her tail against his nose, and he sneezed, and as if the twitch of his nose had flipped a switch in his head, all his memories came flooding back.

He gasped and sat up, hand shooting out to Grace. She arched back into it. Whole. Unharmed.

“Cas? Shit, guys, he’s awake!”

Three steps of footsteps, two running towards him, one taking its sweet time. He made his eyes open all the way.

Dean reached the bed first. He grabbed Castiel’s hand, and Cas started at the unexpectedness of the contact, and of the relief written on Dean’s face. “Cas? How do you feel? Do you remember what happened?”

“Hey, man.” Sam clapped his shoulder. “Really good to see you up.”

“Castiel.” 

Well.

Of all the voices he had expected, that was _not_ one of them. Dean dropped his hand, straightening out. Something in the atmosphere felt tense, but Castiel couldn’t focus enough to try to discern the emotions hovering in the room.

“Hello Michael,” Castiel said warily. He pressed his palm along Grace’s spine, drawing strength from her calm, constant presence.

“I’m glad to see you’re well. I had wanted to move you, but your ‘friends’ objected.” His brother actually made air-quotes around the word “friends.” Castiel cringed, while Sam and Dean just looked vaguely murderous. Castiel wasn’t sure how long he’d been out, but he was suddenly grateful he hadn’t been subject to that conversation.

“It’s good to see you. Why are you here?”

“We called him,” Sam said. “Sorry. Uh, I healed you as best I could, but you weren’t waking up. You really spent yourself, Cas. We needed someone else to help, and you always said Michael was the strongest witch you knew, and his number was in your phone so—”

Michael didn’t beat around the bush. “They gave me your location. And it’s lucky they did. I don’t know if you would have made it had I not been here. But more importantly, Mother sent me to retrieve you. Your education has gone far enough. It’s time you rejoin the family.”

“That isn’t happening,” Castiel replied automatically. In the corner of his eye, he saw Dean relax, tension dropping off his body. “My place is here.”

His brother looked unsurprised at the response. “You don’t understand what you’ve gotten yourself involved with. You’re looking at a tiny part of a fight far bigger than you or I. We’ve been tangling with the coven that Alastair belonged to for generations, Castiel. Had they captured you, they would have either killed you or attempted to use you as a bargaining chip. Either way, the situation would have escalated beyond what we were prepared for. You need to be with us. You’ll be safer, and you won’t make any sort of… rash decisions.”

Castiel scratched Grace’s ears, trying to steady himself. “You said safer. Are their coven members still after us?”

“Cas, uh.” That was Sam. “So Alastair was keeping Dean near an old cabin of one of our dad’s friends, another hunter. It’s warded pretty heavily against detection spells. We came here to rest up, and so I could try to heal you some. And that night, I got a call. The apartment burned down.”

Cas looked around, taking stock of the situation for the first time. One room with the bed he lay on and a couch, a room off to the side, and not much else. No wonder his brother, so used to luxury, looked so disgruntled.

“I’ve already been to the scene. The witches who did it covered their tracks, but they made no attempts to hide that magic was involved. They’re hunting you,” Michael informed him. “And given that they are legion while you’re two half-trained witches and a human, they _will_ find you.”

“So if I come with you, Sam and Dean will come as well.” He didn’t phrase it as a question, but still he knew the answer.

“You know better than that. We cannot involve strangers in family business.” He raised a hand before anyone could object. “I don’t care how long you’ve known them. They’re strangers to the rest of us.”

He extended his hand to Castiel. “Come on, Castiel. Be sensible— son of a bitch!”

Grace hissed, her paw lingering in the air. Red lines blossomed across Michael’s palm. Dean coughed, though it sounded suspiciously like a snicker at first.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. Sam and Dean are my family as much as you or Mother, or anyone else. I won’t leave them.”

Michael stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. “Mother won’t be happy. Nor will any of the elders in the coven. They’ll come for you.”

“I’ll deal with them when they do. Thank you for your concern, but I can make my own decisions, and I choose to stay here.”

“Cas is welcome with us for as long as he likes,” Sam added. “Maybe the apartment’s gone, but he’ll always have a home with Dean and me.”

“Comforting words, coming from a witch who drank another’s blood.” From the corner of his eye, Cas saw the look that Dean gave Sam, and he winced internally. “You think you can control your compulsion towards dark magic. Divination has never been my strong suit, but I expect you’ll find that you’re mistaken.”

Michael shook his head, picking up a suitcase that Castiel hadn’t noticed before. “We’ll meet again.”

“I’m sure. Please send my best wishes to our family.”

He didn’t slam the door. Such a gesture would, doubtless, have been far too dramatic for him.

Grace let out a contented purr as she rubbed Castiel’s hand. He breathed out, trying to center himself.

“Witch’s blood?” Dean’s voice started out low with fury, but it certainly didn’t end that way. “You drank _another. witch’s. blood_?”

“Can we perhaps save this discussion for later?” Castiel asked wearily, but neither paid any attention to him.

“I told you, I could see everything that bastard was doing to you,” Sam said quietly. “So yeah, I killed a witch, and I drank his blood. Yeah, maybe it counts as dark magic, and I know how you feel about that. But it got us to you, and I don’t regret it.”

“Sam, you can’t – you can’t just _do_ that! You know how many witches tried to tell Dad that they could stop? That they would be good once they cast this spell, and then once they’d cast the next, and the next? You know why he didn’t give second chances? Because he knew better!”

“That’s _enough_!” Castiel snapped. “Azazel’s coven is still out there. If they burned down the apartment, they’re after our blood. Yes, Dean. Sam drank witch’s blood. It was a stupid decision¬¬—  
” here he glared at Sam “—but also a necessary one due to the direness of the moment. We need to regroup and figure out what we’re going to do, and we can’t do that if we’re arguing.”

They both stared at him. Weak though he was, he met their glares with one of his own. 

And then Dean sighed and sat down hard next to Castiel. The motion jostled Grace. She flicked her ears back, annoyed, but then climbed over and began kneading Dean’s lap.

“What do we do?” Dean smiled, grim. “The same shit we’ve always done. We get on the road, and we go out and hunt ourselves some witches.”

“We can’t go back to school,” Sam said quietly. “I mean. You can if you want to; I won’t stop you, but it’s not safe. Not for us, or for others. It’s amazing enough that no one died in the apartment fire.”

“Alastair said that our mom was a witch,” Dean said. His voice was flat, something inscrutable in his tone. “Sam and I have been talking about if that’s true. I have memories, of the night of the fire…” 

He trailed off, running a hand over his face. Castiel would have given anything in that moment to not have been so weak, to have been able to take Dean’s pain away, though he knew logically that any hurt Dean was feeling had its roots far beyond the physical. He couldn’t have done anything even if he had been at full power. That didn’t keep him from wishing.

“You want to find out if it’s true,” Castiel said. “You hope to hunt the coven, but also to uncover your past.”

The two brothers exchanged a glance. Sam shrugged. “Yeah. I mean, that’s the gist of it.”

Castiel nodded, stroking Grace. “Well. I know I’m not much help right now. I don’t know how long before I’m back at full strength. I don’t know if I _can_ fully recover. But I’ll come with you. If you’ll have me.”

“‘Have you?’ Are you kidding?” Dean stared at him, and for a brief, entirely illogical moment Castiel was afraid. “You nearly killed yourself healing me. Of course we’ll have you. As if we could just leave you here after everything. How could you think—”

Castiel reached out and laid his hand over Dean’s, squeezing slightly. “Thank you, Dean. I’d be honored to join you.” He thought he saw a faint blush tint Dean’s cheeks, but he wasn’t certain.

Sam cleared his throat. “Right. So you should probably get some rest, Cas. It’s kinda late. We can talk tomorrow, figure out where we want to go from here. Sound good?”

“Yes. Sounds good.”

Dean stood up as Sam disappeared into the small side room that Castiel assumed was a bathroom. He scratched the back of his neck, not meeting Castiel’s eyes. “Great. And, Cas… thanks. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you. Or Grace,” he added. He reached out, and she butted her head against his hand. “And I appreciate it.”

“Of course. I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

“Yeah. Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Night, Cas.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

He watched Dean amble over to the couch. Grace adjusted her position so she was lying snuggled up against his side, her tail flicking his face. He rolled his eyes.

His work was just beginning. Precognition had never been a strength of his, and so he could make out nothing about the road ahead. But he had the curious sense that he wouldn’t be going down it alone.

So with that reassurance in mind, Castiel petted his familiar and let the rumble of her purring lull him into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading -- comments and kudos always appreciated. Please also be sure to view the [art ,](https://smudgythoughts.livejournal.com/1229.html) if you haven't already :)
> 
> finally, feel free to chat with me @ lies-unfurl.tumblr.com


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